


Scorpion's Kiss

by JustAnotherBlonde



Category: Naruto
Genre: Bartenders, Gen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, POV Second Person, Sasori Mini Bang, Sasori Mini-Bang, SasoriMiniBang, You flirt, You get flirted with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherBlonde/pseuds/JustAnotherBlonde
Summary: It's Halloween. You receive a Scorpion's Kiss from the bartender."You wander up to the bar. The bartender draws your eye with his shock of fiery red hair, long, doll-like eyelashes, and immaculately put-together Victorian vampire costume."Sasori Mini-Bang 2020Day 2 Prompt: Poisonous /Day 5 Prompt: Free Day
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Sasori Mini Bang





	Scorpion's Kiss

It’s Halloween. The club you’ve strayed into is rammed with monsters and ghosts and vampires and queens, every one of them a little bit more sparkly and made-up than you would have expected to see out on the street, and most of them are wearing high heels, regardless of gender. They are frightening but fabulous. You’ve come to the right place.

You wander up to the bar. The bartender draws your eye with his shock of fiery red hair, long, doll-like eyelashes, and immaculately put-together Victorian vampire costume. Taking it all in, you could almost believe that this man is indeed an immortal being dressed in clothing he actually procured in the late 1800s. You draw closer. His pale skin is dusted with powder, and the blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth looks too dark to be fake. He turns to speak to a customer: his fangs glisten, pearly white and perfectly porcelain. Doubt leaves your mind: this man _must_ be the real deal.

He turns to you and you’re paralyzed by his cool brown eyes. His face betrays no emotional reaction upon seeing you: he bestows the same impassive expression on all of his customers.

“What’s your poison?” he asks, soft tenor voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

“Um…” You mutter the name of your usual mixed drink, nothing fancy. You’ve been out drinking since ten and your wallet is doing its best impression of a desiccated skeleton.

The vampire props an elbow up on the bar, cups his chin in his hand and regards you with a sly, closed-mouthed smile, a single fang protruding over his lip.

“You don’t want that,” he says firmly, eyelashes beating slowly like butterfly wings. “Let me make you something a little more interesting.”

He scoops ice from the freezer into his shaker, coattails swirling as he spins around the space, snatching bottle after bottle. A splash of this, a shot of that—your eyes grow wide as you realise just how much alcohol is going into this thing. _Poison, indeed_ , you think.

He lifts the shaker and agitates it in crisp, clean movements. He attempts none of those gimmicky gestures that so many bartenders use to make up for their lack of skill at mixing. You imagine that beneath his coat sleeves, his arms must be wiry with muscle, for every movement is precisely controlled and timed like a ballet dancer.

The liquid—pale red from a splash of cranberry juice with a slight hint of orange—is poured into a martini glass. Frosty condensation immediately forms on its crystal surface. He moves to assemble the garnish next: a bleeding, dark purple cherry followed by a cube of blood orange are skewered onto a toothpick with a tiny white wooden skull affixed to the top of it. Finally, he drops a tiny pill of dry ice into the glass, which sinks to the bottom as steam begins to billow over the lip of the glass. His eyes flash up at you—he wants to know your reaction to his creation. Your lips part, surprised. The look in his eyes makes you blush.

You gingerly take the glass from his outstretched hand, pinching the stem between fingers and thumb.

“Thank you,” you say, remembering your manners at the last second. “What is it?”

“It’s my own creation. I call it a ‘Scorpion’s Kiss,’” he replies, reaching for a glass he keeps behind the bar. It looks to be water.

“You’re not drinking tonight?” you ask, the corner of your mouth twisting upward. You set your glass down on the bar and lean forward, both elbows adhering to the sticky surface.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you ask, the words spilling out your mouth before you’ve thought it through. You mentally kick yourself. _He’s a vampire: he doesn’t drink alcohol! They only drink blood!_ The rational part of your brain retorts: _Then why is he drinking water?? He’s not really a vampire, you fool…_ Your heart is in your mouth and you’re very tempted to just turn around and walk away before this gets any worse. Then you remember you haven’t paid yet and you’re still waiting for his reply.

He looks you up and down, sizing you up mercilessly. You think of your thin wallet and swallow your nerves.

“What kind of a drink are you offering?” he asks. It’s as if he _knows_ just how much money you have left.

Hating your traitorous mouth, you reply: “Share a Scorpion’s Kiss with me.”

He grins at this.

You pay while he mixes the second drink, forgoing the garnish and special effects. Your wallet is now empty. You watch to make sure he’s not cheating: adding less alcohol to cut costs.

He raises his glass. You raise yours, satisfied that his is equally as strong.

“Happy Halloween,” you toast, locking eyes with him.

He smirks over the top of his glass. “Happy Halloween,” he murmurs.

The first sip stabs at your tongue: it is sharp, bitingly alcoholic, sour yet plump with tangy sweetness. Your mouth tingles like it’s being attacked. You swallow, and the alcohol burns its way to your stomach; you almost gasp at the sensation. You close your eyes for a moment, transported somewhere far-off and exotic, no tropical paradise but somewhere hot and unforgiving.

When you open your eyes once more, the bartender has moved on, serving a couple of zombie drag queens a few spaces down the bar. You wait for him to finish making their drinks and return to you: you couldn’t possibly leave without letting him know what you thought of the drink.

But then another customer slides up to the bar, a ghastly skeleton, white hair slicked back from his face, body painted black and white—in fact, it’s dark enough in the club that you’re not even sure if he’s actually wearing clothing. He grins at the bartender and cracks a joke. The bartender chuckles, laughter brightening his normally aloof features for just a moment. He passes the skeleton a bottled beer, and when his friend leaves—you can tell they must be friends because who else would be able to make this vampire laugh?—he turns away to collect and wash the dirty glasses which have multiplied along the bar, his face a mask of concentration.

You want to make him smile again.

Finally, he turns in your direction, lips parting in surprise when he realizes you’re still there. You smile at him and wave a hand.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks, brows pinching together ever so slightly.

You shake your head.

“No, no… I just wanted to tell you that this drink is amazing.”

His eyes light up. It isn’t quite a smile but you can tell that he likes to be complimented.

“I’m glad you like it,” he purrs. He casts a glance down the bar, checking that no one is waiting to be served, then picks up his martini glass. He lifts it in another toast. You eye your glass warily, frightened to take a second sip.

“To beautiful eyes,” he says, sinking his gaze into yours like a scorpion’s stinger. Your heart stops for a beat; you swallow on a dry throat.

“Th-thank you,” you stammer, raising your glass. Your cheeks burn like miniature fires.

“Bottom’s up?” he queries, lifting a thin eyebrow.

You blanch. “Uh…”

He laughs, tipping his head backward and closing his eyes. “You look like I’ve dosed you with real poison!” he exclaims, sipping his drink and setting it down. He plants both hands on the bar and leans forward as you, relieved, steal a tiny sip from your glass. It may not be actual poison, but whatever is in this Scorpion’s Kiss is going to your head quicker than anything you’ve ever had in your life.

“So…” you begin, your mind frantically searching for a suitable conversation topic. “Are you really a vampire?” You wince and squeeze shut your eyes, cringing at your stupid, useless brain.

He is smiling, clearly amused at your bumbling idiocy.

“I’m sorry,” you add, rubbing a hand over your brow. “That’s dumb, I mean—”

“I am really _dressed_ as a vampire, yes,” he replies, flashing his fangs at you and flourishing a blood-stained hand. You pore over the details of his costume once more, from the ruffled lace of his pristine white shirt collar and cuffs to the intricate embroidery of his black brocade waistcoat. His double-breasted overcoat is wine-red, both lapels lined with dull bronze buttons; the swallow-tails are impeccably tailored. It fits him like a glove and is adorned with a bronze-chained pocket watch and a rose pinned to his left breast. The rose matches his red, red hair.

He leans forward and plucks the garnish from your drink. You had been very much looking forward to eating that cherry, but now he’s raising the skewered fruit to his own lips. He’s goading you with his eyes, daring you to say something. You are speechless.

But as the cube of blood orange disappears into his mouth, you cannot prevent your dismay from etching itself all over your face. He pauses.

“I’m sorry, did you want this?” he says, cocking his head at you. He knew you wanted it. You can see right through his act. He leans forward on the bar once more, extending the cherry to you. “Here.”

You decide that two can play at this game. Instead of taking the skewer from him with your fingers, you lean forward too, and bite the cherry. He pulls the toothpick out and you crush the fruit in your teeth, its sweet, dark juices flooding your mouth. The fruit had been marinated in something alcoholic for a long time before it found its way into your drink. You swallow; your vision is beginning to swim.

He is toying with the toothpick, twisting it round in his fingers and examining the little skull.

“I made these, you know,” he says in a low voice.

“Really?” you ask. “Let me see.”

You reach for it, brushing his fingers as you take it from him. His hands are surprisingly cold, given how warm the space was.

The little skull on the tip of the toothpick is far more detailed than you had noticed at first. There are cracks along the cranium where skull-plates would have fused together, deep grooves where the jaw would separate from the skull, and two rows of miniscule teeth grinning in the lipless mouth. The skull is hollowed out—you can see into it through the eye sockets.

“It’s exquisite,” you sigh. Then it hits you. You look to the open cigar box tucked beside a container of lemons and limes spilling over with skull-topped toothpicks, then back up at your vampire. “How many did you make? It must have taken forever…”

His eyes flick to the box, then back to you and the toothpick between your fingers. He’s trying to decide how to respond.

He sighs and hangs his head.

“I made two hundred. But we haven’t sold many of my drinks…”

“Oh?” An idea is forming in your mind. “But they’re wonderful. Everybody should get one.”

You hold your glass up to your eyes, staring at him through it. “I’ll help sell them for you. I’ll take a tray out on the floor—”

With a wry smile, he plucks the toothpick from your loosely-held grip. He stares at it lovingly, then pokes it into your hair behind your ear.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I want to give them all away so easily.”

You study him, curious as to what kind of person would spend so much time and effort on something that he is so loathe to share with others.

“Why not?” you press.

He purses his lips as if he’s unsure how to answer the question. Then he pulls the cigar box over and begins sorting through them, gingerly lifting one or two out and cupping them in his palm so you can see them.

“This one is a replica of a female skull found in the ruins of Pompeii,” he explains, passing it to you. “I did about thirty of her.”

You stare.

“You’re not just a bartender, are you?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m in my final year of university. Art major.” He laughs, but it’s a dry, derisive laugh. “This pays better, though.”

“What will you do after you graduate?” you ask. “Stay here?”

The look in his eyes then tells you that there is much more to this story than he’s willing to tell you, a complete stranger. Faster than you can react the look fades into a bored, distant stare.

“I’m not sure,” he replies, rummaging through the box for another skull. He passes it to you. “This one was a princess.”

“A princess? How do you know?”

He grins, that smile lighting up his face once more. You start to think that the fangs look so natural on him that you might not even recognize him without them.

“Well, they found her in a princess’s crypt. But look,” he says, plucking your toothpick from behind your ear and holding it up next to the princess. The stem of your toothpick is stained dark purple from the cherry. “Does anything distinguish her from a Pompeiian peasant?”

You inspect the two skulls. Truly, there are differences, a credit to the artist’s skill, but which one had been a princess and which a peasant is most certainly impossible to discern from the miniature forms.

“Can I keep them both?” you ask.

He tenderly folds them into your hand, studying your face. Unnerved, you look away. For lack of anything better to do, you take another draught of your Scorpion’s Kiss, and instantly regret it. The drink tastes sharper than it did before, potent alcohol burning down your throat and erupting in your stomach.

“Ha…” you pant, shooting him a piteous look. “It’s so strong…”

He bares his fangs in a wicked grin and regards you with laughing eyes.

Another bartender squeezes past him, this one dressed in a lab coat with several bloodied tentacles bursting from various locations on his body, a mutating mad scientist. He has thick spectacles and a long white ponytail. He turns to your vampire.

“Sasori,” he says to the red-head, “you’re due for a break, if you want one.” Then he looks at you. “Nice costume,” he says. “First one of those I’ve seen tonight.” He smirks in your direction, then continues on his way.

You turn to your vampire. “Sasori?” you query.

“That’s my name,” he states needlessly. He snatches up his drink and downs it. Eyes glittering, he grins at you: “It means Scorpion.”


End file.
